Harp & Altar
POETRY
Jason Michael Bacasa is a writer and musician currently living in New York. His screenplay Paperback was recently shortlisted for the Sundance Labs and selected as part of IFP’s Emerging Narrative. He performs music under the moniker Tan or Boil. His debut release is slated to appear later this year on Australia's Preservation Records.

 

Lynn Crawford is a fiction writer whose books include Simply Separate People (Black Square Editions, 2002) and Fortification Resort (Black Square Editions, 2005). She edits the cultural arts journal DETROIT:, published by the Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit.

 

David B. Goldstein is the author of the chapbook Been Raw Diction (Dusie, 2006), and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals and anthologies, including The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel—Second Floor, Jubilat, Typo, Pinstripe Fedora, Epoch, Alice Blue Review, and The Paris Review.  He teaches creative writing, Renaissance literature, and food studies at York University in Toronto.

 

Elise Harris is a freelance writer living in Brooklyn. Her writing has appeared in previous issues of Harp & Altar.

 

Jennifer Kronovet’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Brooklyn Rail, The Colorado Review, Crowd, Pleiades, Ploughshares, and other journals. She is the co-founder and co-editor of Circumference, a journal of poetry in translation, and works at the Academy of American Poets as the editor of the magazine American Poet.


Miranda Lichtenstein’s work has appeared in solo exhibitions at galleries in New York, Los Angeles, and Tokyo, and has also been included in group shows at museums and galleries around the world.

 

A recipient of the Aga Kahn Prize from The Paris Review, Norman Lock is the author of Trio (Triple Press, 2007), The Long Rowing Unto Morning (Ravenna Press, 2007), Two Plays for Radio (Triple Press, 2006), Land of the Snow Men (writing as George Belden, Calamari Press, 2005), A History of the Imagination (FC2, 2004), Notes to the Book of Supplemental Diagrams for Marco Knauff's Universe (Ravenna Press, 2003), and The House of Correction (Broadway Play Publishing, 1988), among other works.

 

Eugene Marten’s novel In the Blind came out in 2003 from Turtle Point Press. He lives in Harlem.

 

Miranda Mellis is the author of The Revisionist (Calamari Press, 2007) and an editor at The Encyclopedia Project (www.encyclopediaproject.org). Her writing has recently appeared in The Believer, Post Road, Fence, Denver Quarterly, and Harper's. She teaches at California College of the Arts.

 

Ryan Murphy is the author of Down With the Ship from Otis Books/Seismicity Editions. He has received awards from Chelsea magazine and the Aldrich Museum of Contemporary Art, as well as a grant from the Fund for Poetry. He lives in New York.

 

Michael Newton is a current MFA candidate at the Cranbrook Academy of Art in Michigan. His gallery reviews have appeared in previous issues of Harp & Altar.

 

Jason Stumpf teaches literature and creative writing at Providence College in Rhode Island. His translation of Mexican poet Pura López-Colomé’s Aurora was published this year by Shearsman Books. His work has recently appeared in Action Yes, LIT, The Modern Review, and elsewhere.

 

Mathias Svalina is the author of the chapbooks Why I Am White (Kitchen Press, 2007), Creation Myths (New Michigan Press, 2007), and When We Broke the Microscope, a collaboration with Julia Cohen forthcoming from Small Fires Press. He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, where he is co-editor of Octopus Magazine and Octopus Books.

 

Bronwen Tate is the author of the chapbook Souvenirs, published as part of the Dusie Chapbook Kollektiv. Her poems have recently appeared in The Cultural Society and The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel—Second Floor. This year she began a PhD in comparative literature at Stanford University, where she also edits Mantis: A Journal of Poetry, Criticism and Translation, and gets teased for knitting in class. Visit her online at breadnjamforfrances.blogspot.com.

 

Jared White’s poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Meridian, The Modern Review, Sawbuck, and Verse, and are forthcoming with Another Chicago Magazine, Cannibal, Fugue, Fulcrum, and LVNG, among other publications. His MFA poetry studies were at Columbia University, where he received a prize from the Academy of American Poets in 2005. He lives in Brooklyn and can be found online at jaredswhite.blogspot.com.

 

Michael Zeiss spent five years at the American Red Cross working with people affected by the attacks of September 11. His writing has appeared in previous issues of Harp & Altar.
All Saints
Ryan Murphy

1.

I can’t stop thinking of the nothing I want.

Five past eleven on a Monday.

Which is also awful.

 

Like sun through the smokelight,

or a phantom limb,

her hair a kind of feathers.

 

Visibly shaken. Heat scales

an advent of August.

 

More rope.

 

Or we can ballantine,

bask me in your light

of shipwreck:

stipple and shell and shall.

 

I mean, how often

can one remember one’s posture?

 

 

2.

St. Brendan, you heartstar,

you graygreen spire,

I can’t stop thinking of the nothing I want

to do.

 

This is how things appear

from the celebration of the bicentennial.

And the rigging over Rose Wharf.

 

I don’t want to seem intrepid

sailor, we are friendless one and all.

 

O privateer, whistling in the courtyard

birds, sunflower and candles.

 

 

3.

Like sun through the smokelight,

the game called on account of fog.

Children with popsicle

hands waving in the fog horns.

 

The body, strung vibrant

with rigging,

 

daisystar, ark on a hilltop,

Spanish lights in suburban

backyards.

 

Bundle and squirm

we came with cacophony,

the light of shipwreck.

 

 

4.

The incoming tide

like a bowl of nickels.

 

We struggle and chime.

 

St. Andrew, you graygreen

spire. Gloucester harbor,

splinter through the courtyard

gates. Sunflowers, candles.

 

 

5.

Vigorous and charming

the baseball hats and commemorative

coins of the bicentennial.

The rotting hulls of the last tall ships.

 

Daisystar, pulled by the plague

of storms and foglights,

sinking fast, amongst calls for

 

more rope.

 

I am some sad potatoes.

Which is also awful.

 

It is Monday, the same Monday

or another Monday come around,

and the petulant lights of the churchtop

warn off small planes

 

like a children’s book lighthouse.